


something familiar

by kiyala



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dick Pics, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3440510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac's favourite nsfw blog is his exact type, because he can pretend that the photos and the audios are actually Combeferre. Funny story about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something familiar

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this kink meme prompt](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=14216136#t14216136).

For the most part, Courfeyrac likes to think that he does a pretty good job of dealing with the fact that he's in love with one of his best friends in the entire world. Most people might not think that he has a very good poker face, but nobody—not even his friends—know just how much practice Courfeyrac gets, sitting straight-faced whenever Combeferre says something devastatingly intelligent, or does something caring, or simply shows up looking like he's walked right out of one of Courfeyrac's fantasies. Courfeyrac is still simultaneously congratulating himself and hating himself for the fact that he's somehow managed to talk Combeferre into wearing skinny jeans on a regular basis.

The fact that he lives with Combeferre means that hiding his feelings is a necessity. He can't have Combeferre finding out and feeling uncomfortable, no matter what, and it's difficult sometimes, when he's so full of love for Combeferre that he feels his chest might burst, when he's cuddling with Combeferre on the couch and it's all he wants, except he knows that Combeferre bears no romantic feelings for him.

Then other times, he _wants_ Combeferre, aches for him in a way that can't be fixed by going out and finding a substitute for his desire. The times when nobody else but Combeferre will do, whether real or imagined. Courfeyrac tries not to imagine Combeferre while jerking off because it makes him feel guilty. He makes an exception, sometimes when nothing else will do, when Combeferre isn't home and Courfeyrac locks himself in his room with his laptop and earphones.

There's a blog that Courfeyrac counts amongst the highest of his guilty pleasures, run by one person who posts pictures and audio recordings of himself as he jerks off. The pictures are of his cock, of his stomach, but never of his face, and Courfeyrac is fine with that. His skin is dark enough to pretend he's Combeferre, his voice deep enough.

There's a new audio post since the last time Courfeyrac has visited. It has a caption, as some do— _He's not home yet. I wish he was. I wish I doing this with him_. Courfeyrac smiles tightly in sympathy. He can definitely relate.

He clicks onto the blog's photo tag as he listens, undressing along with the rustling of the guy getting settled. He hears the click of a lube bottle as he reaches for his own. There are new photos in the tag and in the recording, the guy's breath hitches quietly. Courfeyrac slicks his cock and strokes slowly as he scrolls, imagining himself kneeling on the floor by Combeferre's bed, imagining his lips stretched around Combeferre's cock, his mouth full.

"Ahh, f—" the guy gasps, cutting himself off. Courfeyrac bites his lip, stroking a little faster, and scrolls to the next picture.

His mouth goes dry when he sees its. The photo is of the guy's legs spread, fingers curled around the base of his cock as it stands, hard and gorgeous, with beads of come dripping down its length. Courfeyrac shuts his eyes tightly, licking his lips as he strokes harder. He imagines Combeferre, hard and aching and dripping all over himself. The guy in the recording moans and to Courfeyrac, it's Combeferre, moaning, gasping, biting off a curse at Courfeyrac's tongue lapping at his cock, cleaning away his come. Combeferre has a hand in Courfeyrac's hair, the other tightly gripping the patchwork quilt his family sent him for his birthday—

Courfeyrac's eyes snap open, his heart skipping a beat. He looks at the photo again and he sees it. He sees the very same patchwork quilt, just as the guy in the recording— _Combeferre_ —moans loudly again.

"Oh, fuck," Courfeyrac whimpers, and comes hard into his hand.

He grabs for his tissues, cleaning himself off, panting softly. His earphones are still in and Combeferre is coming, gasping and moaning, and if Courfeyrac hadn't only just come, he's sure that he'd be hard all over again.

He pulls his earphones out as the recording ends and puts them aside. The more Courfeyrac thinks about it, the more things start to fall into place. He scrolls through more pictures and recognises more of the bedsheets. Most of the photos are carefully taken not to have anything particularly identifying in them, and Courfeyrac decides that the quilt was probably just a slip up. Still, Courfeyrac can figure out which angles Combeferre's taken the photos at, and it suddenly makes more sense why there are always new photos and audio posts when Courfeyrac spends more time away from the apartment. 

Eventually, he ends up looking through the captions on the different posts. Courfeyrac hadn't paid too much attention to them before but now that he's reading them all, most of them are longing. For the guy he lives with.

For Courfeyrac.

He pauses over one of the photos, of Combeferre's fingers wrapped around his hard, flushed cock. The caption reads, _All he did was smile at me. I wanted to kiss him breathless_.

Courfeyrac takes a deep breath and then exhales slowly, covering his face with his hands to hide his grin. He knows that he needs to do something, but he doesn't know what. Combeferre isn't due home for at least another hour and a half, but Courfeyrac doesn't know how to talk to him about this, or if can even say anything to his face. He settles for sending Combeferre a message on his blog—he has anonymous messages disabled, and there's a note saying that messages aren't published on the blog, but answered privately if there are any questions.

Combeferre knows Courfeyrac's account—they follow each other's regular blogs—and so he keeps his message simple.

_Hi, I think that maybe we should talk x_

He hesitates for a moment, but he steels himself and hits send, then closes his browser, hoping that Combeferre will see the message before he gets home.

There's no chance of Courfeyrac getting anything productive done between now and Combeferre coming home and he knows it. He settles for watching a movie instead, putting Mulan into the DVD player because it's usually his comfort film of choice, curling up on the couch and hugging a pillow.

His phone rings just before the end of the movie, and Courfeyrac's heart skips a beat when he sees that it's Combeferre. He's nervous as he answers, hoping it doesn't show in his voice. "Hi."

"Hey Courfeyrac." Combeferre's voice is shaky. He sounds _terrified_. "I… I got your message."

"Oh." Courfeyrac checks his watch to confirm that Combeferre is due home soon. He realises that his hands are shaking. "Where are you?"

"Outside. I… didn't know if you wanted me to come in."

Courfeyrac gets to his feet and walks to the front door. He opens it and Combeferre freezes up. He looks so scared that it breaks Courfeyrac's heart a little. With a sigh, he reaches for Combeferre as he disconnects their call. He gives Combeferre a small smile, squeezing his hand gently. "Come inside?"

Combeferre nods, still looking unsure of himself. Courfeyrac tugs him into the apartment and shuts the door behind them.

"I'm sorry—" Combeferre begins, before Courfeyrac hushes him.

"You don't have anything to apologise for." Taking a deep breath, Courfeyrac forces himself to look Combeferre in the eyes. "I'm not new to your blog, Combeferre. I only figured out that it was you today, but—fuck, this is embarrassing and I'm sorry. There's a reason I'd visit your blog so much, because the guy running it was my exact type. Because I could look at the pictures and listen to the audios and pretend that—fuck. I'm sorry."

Combeferre sits down on the couch heavily, staring at Courfeyrac with surprise. "You're telling me that we both want each other. That we've been…"

"Operating on the assumption that it's one-sided and pining separately?" Courfeyrac grins, biting his lip. "With a bit of exhibitionism on the side, too. You know, I wouldn't have pegged you for the type."

"Is that a problem?" Combeferre asks. "I'll take the blog down if it makes you uncomfortable—"

"Combeferre, no. You don't have to do that." Courfeyrac sits down on the couch, leaving some space between them. "It doesn't make me uncomfortable. Even if it did—"

"If it did, I'd delete the entire thing in a heartbeat," Combeferre promises. "I don't care about anything else. I just don't want to cross any boundaries that you don't want me to."

"You're not," Courfeyrac assures him with a smile. "I actually really want to kiss you right now."

Combeferre reaches out for him, and Courfeyrac immediately shuffles closer. They take each other's hands and Combeferre pulls him closer, pausing when they're so close that Courfeyrac can feel Combeferre's breath on his lips.

"The thing is, I don't _just_ want to kiss you," Combeferre murmurs. "And I don't _just_ want to sleep with you."

"I know." Courfeyrac strokes his fingers through Combeferre's hair. "I gathered that from your blog. I want that too. I want to date you, Combeferre. I want you to be one of my best friends _and_ my boyfriend."

"Your boyfriend," Combeferre repeats, grinning. "I like the sound of that. I'm going to kiss you now."

"Good," Courfeyrac hums, his hands settling on Combeferre's shoulders as their lips meet. They're both smiling into their kiss but it deepens quickly, until Combeferre is pulling Courfeyrac into his lap, their hands wandering. Combeferre's hand slides under Courfeyrac's shirt, warm against his skin. Courfeyrac pulls away from their kiss for just long enough that he can tug his shirt off, dropping it on the couch beside them before working on the buttons of Combeferre's shirt, nipping playfully at his lips.

"This is really happening," Combeferre murmurs, soft and awed, as Courfeyrac gets him out of his shirt and kneels on the floor in front of him. 

"It really is," Courfeyrac replies, kissing Combeferre's stomach as he undoes the fly of his jeans. "If you want me to slow down…"

"Keep going," Combeferre breathes, and that's all the permission Courfeyrac needs to tug his jeans down along with his underwear. 

Courfeyrac licks his lips, smoothing his hands over Combeferre's stomach as he just _looks_.

"You're staring," Combeferre says quietly, stomach tensing under Courfeyrac's touch. "Is this okay?"

In reply, Courfeyrac presses a kiss to the head of Combeferre's cock. He licks it, slow, experimental, the way he's always fantasised of, to listen to the sounds he can draw out of Combeferre. He's familiar with the hitch in Combeferre's breath that says he likes what he feels. He hears Combeferre exhale quietly as Courfeyrac's lips wrap around the head of his cock. Courfeyrac presses the heel of his hand against his own cock, ridiculously proud of the fact that he's the one drawing these sounds out of Combeferre this time around. It's his lips sliding over Combeferre's cock, not his own fist, he's the one Combeferre is gasping for.

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre moans softly, his hand in Courfeyrac's hair. 

Pulling off Combeferre's cock, Courfeyrac licks his lips. "What if we recorded ourselves together? What if we put that on your blog?"

"Fuck," Combeferre gasps and Courfeyrac smiles, stroking him, licking the length of his cock. 

"Would you like that, Combeferre? So people know I'm yours? We could take photos together. Grinding our cocks together. Me straddling your lap."

" _Courfeyrac_ ," Combeferre moans, loud and urgent this time. His grip on Courfeyrac's hair tightens, tugging on it. "This is going to be so embarrassingly fast."

Halfway gone as well, Courfeyrac strokes himself as he slides his lips over Combeferre's cock again. He's nearly managed to fit all of Combeferre's cock in his mouth when the fingers in his hair tug harder this time.

"Get up here," Combeferre pants. "In my lap, Courfeyrac—fuck, I'm so close."

Scrambling to his feet, Courfeyrac lets Combeferre pull him close, mouths meeting in a messy kiss, gasping against each other's mouths as Combeferre's hand wraps around them both. Neither of them take long before they're coming, tightly wrapped around each other, panting into the space between their lips. They moan each other's names and Combeferre's voice is husky, raw, and a million times better than an audio recording.

They stay in each other's arms even after they're done, heads resting against each other, until Courfeyrac pulls away. He smiles tiredly, chest rising and falling as he waits for his breath to even out. "Wow."

"We just did that on our couch," Combeferre realises, his head falling back against the cushion behind him. "Wasn't that one of the rules we made when we first moved in? No sex on the couch?"

"Sure, when we meant sex with other people," Courfeyrac replies. He smirks. "Just imagine how many of our own rules we can break."

Combeferre sighs, but he gives Courfeyrac a fond smile. "We're going to make a list and systematically go through and break every single one, aren't we?"

"I think we'll start with _no loud sex_ ," Courfeyrac decides. "Tonight?"

Combeferre gives him the same indulgent smile he always saves for Courfeyrac, except this time it's even fonder. "Sounds good to me."


End file.
